his sonata
by thirteen's vodka
Summary: Garcia makes a connection in a case that troubles the BAU team. [platonic!GarciaxReid]


_I wrote this piece as part of a writing exchange I did on Tumblr! Hope you enjoy :)_

The case was hard and seemed to go nowhere at one point.

And then something clicked, and I figured it all out.

The music. It's all in the music. I have a theory, though I'm not sure if it'll work out at all. Just a technical analyst (well, a badass one), not a fellow profiler like my fine furry friends. It's reasonable, however.

The team brought in a guy with the most connections on the victims they could gather. He attended separate orchestra concerts in the nearby theatre, and either one of the victims showed up on one of the days he did.

I've seen the interviews with him – Sam Wells, and he's a music prodigy, really popular amongst his home country in England. His music is above average, I could give him that, but not outstanding. It's just his cute face that draws in the fame like every other generic pop artist of this generation.

Cute boy over here has something bothering him. I'm sure the others have noticed; his face was making weird things during the interview with JJ and Tara. He just kept staring at the ripped pieces of an arrangement the unsub kept leaving at crime scenes. His voice wasn't shaky at all when answering questions as a normal reaction would be when one's nervous – he kept it monotone the whole time.

It was those pieces of evidence that placed him in that trance, so that's where I focused on.

Sadly, after the interview with Sam, two more victims were added to the list. Home alone, like the others, young, successful, ginger, brown-eyed, male. They were laid on the floor in a position when a body is in a casket for display, and clutched in their hands were ripped pieces of sheet music. These attacks happened within two days.

This goddamn unsub was pissing me off.

Just when I was about to scream at my babies (my computers, yes) in irritation, however, I noticed it.

The ripped pieces. They were all from the same music piece. Even Reid couldn't figure that out (so I made a mental note to myself to say "HAH" to him whenever).

I was having a video call with Tara and Matt while the others were out doing whatever Em ordered for them to do. Matt was laying out the pieces, still in their plastic evidence bags, when I saw the connection. The string of notes in two of the pieces had fit together, and I knew exactly what the song was.

His Sonata.

No one thought they'd ever get to hear the full version of the piece ever again. When the composer, Jean Wilcox, died, the sonata died along with him. Because film wasn't really a thing yet at the time, no one recorded the only two performances of the piece. Wilcox kept all the sheet music, which were burned right before his death.

All except one though, which is now ripped apart and now used as the unsub's mark.

I only know a fragment of the song due to my step-parents always humming the tune whenever. My stepdad told me about the history of it. And having a secret talent of sight-reading music, the rest is explained.

(Is it bad that I'm fangirling the fuck out because I found Jean Wilcox's mystery piece? The literal puzzle piece into figuring out Jean's sad love life? Shallow, I know.)

I've known that I am the Oracle for Things Known and Unknown, but I'm exceptionally proud of this one. That's mostly because Wonder Boy hasn't figured it out because I know he never bothered being invested in the musical arts. Well, maybe he tried, but not enough.

I really can't wait to see the face of his in this one.

o o o

"Okay, you've figured out the piece's title. What's the connection with Sam Wells?"

JJ asks this right after my brief explanation of the evidence.

I don't observe anyone else's skepticism – they're profilers, they do have to question this information – because I couldn't miss a beat to answer her question.

"Well, not really much connection him, but there are ties to the victim preference here. Back in Jean Wilcox's time, and even today, it's been speculated that he had a stream of lovers from time to time though he never fully expressed his romantic side publicly. However, when this piece first was performed for the first time, his mates started theorising that the sonata was dedicated to this dude named Elias Ashworth. Him and Wilcox were super super close and some speculate that they were 'more than that.' And…" I send out a photo of a neatly scanned page to their tablets, "…according to one of them, Jean had described Elias as 'a young god sent from the heavens with hair as vibrant as the candle flames.'"

I glance at Reid's direction, amused at his mind-boggled face. More or less, he's probably irked that I stole his thunder. Before I started explaining, I swear his mouth opened for a brief second. And I could tell he's trying so hard not to sulk, but Tara's look on him says so otherwise.

"Jean Wilcox was biseuxal? What a legend," Matt comments, and I had to laugh at that. I like Matt. He's buff like my Chocolate Adonis and his family are the cutest.

Emily is looking over the file of Jean I sent her with her stoic face on. It's been a year and I still can't get over the fact that she's the Unit Chief now. At the same time, I wasn't surprised when her promotion was made light. Hotch had considered letting Emily taking over before, I could tell.

"In that case, Garcia, redo the search for any possible victims with the same preferences as the previous ones and send their addresses over," she orders, setting down the tablet on the table. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, gumdrop," I respond and end the video call.

o o o

Shit. Holy shit.

Must call Emily, must call Emily, must call Emily...

"Gumdrop! Supreme Lady! Badass Bangs!" I call out, slightly overexcited (and maybe too much caffeine). "I found! The killer! Sending his address, he fits the profile very sharply it probably combats with Morgan's chiseled body!"

o o o

They caught him. God-fucking-bless.

The asshole's name is Tim Forrester, and he was caught in a car chase when he was on his way to his next victim's house. He skidded and bumped to the side of a tree, and Emily got the honour of arresting that piece of shit.

He's a homophobic dick who was angered when Sam Wells came out as gay and wanted to be a dramatic arse about it when he would kill him. That's why he killed the other victims first. Sam was originally a ginger, I learned through my diggings, and the Jean Wilcox connection was just a nice way to be mysterious about it.

Emily did arrest Sam as well for obstruction with justice though. The kid was just stupid and nervous, but she was infuriated because the case would've been solved much faster had he mentioned the detail before I had to the dirty work myself.

Tim had met up with Sam before – twice, actually. They got pictures together, and that's how I found him. The profile was a man in his late 30s, early 40s, living alone after a recent divorce, just removed from an important position in work, and violent in thoughts. I came across his Facebook page, and boy, he's quite the chatter.

He got what he deserved though. Serves you right for not believing in equality of rights for everyone here.

When the team come back from Boston, it's 2:56 in the morning. I am still sleepless but I don't want to move. I could sleep in this chair, it is a comfortable chair, but I also don't want to wake up with back pains from hell.

I'm playing Mario Kart 8 and rocking at it. I just destroyed that blue shell that was coming right up my ass with the boombox right on time. Fucking take that, Baby Peach.

Someone knocks on my door, and I pause the race right before I finish 1st again. Dumb, but I don't go back to watch the glory of Rosalina – in her biker suit – elated that she won the race.

I falter over to the door and lazily swing it open. To my surprise, it's Spencer behind the door this time.

"You know about Jean Wilcox?" he inquires, face still a bit puzzled.

I chuckle, moving over to invite the Wonder Boy in. "Yeah, for pretty much my entire life." I sit down on my chair again. "Step-parents had a fragment of the sonata stuck in their heads and sing the tune whenever. From what I gather, it's been passed down from generations on accident."

"Ah." He thins his lips, nodding as he comes in. "I was just curious."

I give him a look of mocked exasperation and he swallows.

"Envious, really."

His eyes concentrate on the dark carpet, and blood rushes quickly to his cheeks.

"Did I really steal your thunder today, Wonder Boy?"

Oh God, that sounded so wrong.

"Yeah." He doesn't catch on to the other meaning of the phrase. Good.

Honestly, he could act very childish sometimes. I know that it may just be him being reminiscent of a childhood he never had. Blessed with the ability to remember and learn in such advancement, but he could never experience the normal past he had always wanted to. Hell, he said he wanted to be grounded once.

I told him that I would take away half of his library as a suitable punishment, and suddenly, he didn't want to be grounded anymore.

"It's okay. I know it must be a bit mind-boggling when someone knows something more than you," I say to him in consideration. "That's your job, not mine."

"I kinda like it though. Being able to learn is what makes me wake up from bed each morning."

"Nerd."

We end up striking a conversation that lasted for an hour or so, and I had forgotten my Mario Kart race then. He asked me more about Jean Wilcox, and I started giving him a lecture on the basics of Music Theory. I honestly don't know. It's 4:21 and all I can think about now is the concept of proper sleeping schedules.

Once I explained Wilcox's usage of adagio in "His Sonata," Spencer looks at me with this mischievous smile that could've driven me nuts if I have the energy to.

"Why are you smiling, Reid?"

His face lights up like a bulb, and I swear it's the cutest thing ever. Besides the cute animal pictures I have on my babies.

"I got you something," he says, and he's fishing through his leather satchel. "Ah, here." He retrieves a black folder, to which he then hands to me.

Smiling, I open up the folder.

I would've screamed if I wanted to. Instead, I make this weird squealing sound that only dogs could hear.

Spencer has given me the full piece of the sonata. It's the genuine one; the paper smells of vintage piano polish and it's weathered beautifully. And the piece itself – the melodies, slurs, the dynamics, the scales, the key changes, the crescendos and decrescendos, the accidentals! Jean Wilcox was one talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before –

"Ohmygod, thank you Spencer!" I drop the folder to envelope him in a warm hug that he definitely did not expect.

"I could tell that you were a big fan of him when you had that video call with us yesterday," he explains. "Thank you for that. We would've been there for a longer time had it not been for you."

And then he makes his usual grin that he doesn't appreciate enough.

Well, at least I do.

"No problem, Spence."


End file.
